Nothing
by The Frisky Firelily
Summary: Sometimes a little nothing can go a long way...


**TITLE: **Nothing

**DISCLAIMER: **Not mine

**A/N: **Ok I think this is sort of a knee jerk reaction to the Chosen-verse trilogy being finished…I'm really going to miss writing it, so I've decided to write some bloody awful angst.

* * *

She woke in the pitch black of their bunk, instinctively rolling over, slipping her hand on cool sheets where a warm body should be lying. There should have been a firm chest, strong arms, a sleepy kiss to her cheek. There should have been a mumble, barely awake, the scratch of stubble against her neck as he nuzzled into her.

There was nothing.

She felt it again, the swelling grief, the overwhelming tidal wave of loneliness. A ship filled with people and she had never felt more alone. Because he wasn't there. Her chest tightened unbearably, she wished she wasn't so dehydrated, her eyes feeling scratchy but shedding no tears. They should have been sliding down her face by now, pooling against her collar bone, ghostly, wet reminders of where he had once traced kisses against her skin.

Now there was nothing.

She sat up, the old hawaiian shirt slipping over her shoulders. Once it had smelt of soap and sweat, cigar smoke from when they'd last been at a bar. Once it had been a solid reminder of his existence – he was here, he left a scent, he was real, once.

Now it smelt of nothing.

She slipped her feet over the side of the bed, wishing she could recoil at the cool touch of the floor, wishing she could feel something, anything. Once she had felt love, warm and vibrant, heating the dark corners of her heart that she'd closed away to protect herself, echoing through her body like ringing, deep laughter, infecting every pore. She had felt anger when they fought, passion when they made up, joy when she looked in his eyes.

Now she felt nothing.

She moved to the sink in the corner of their bunk, splashing water against her face, any form of moisture to take the scratchy feeling from her eyes. She glanced up at the calendar on the wall. Six weeks. He'd been dead for six weeks. She kept waiting for the pain to subside, even a little, kept waiting for the crushing agony to ease its grip on her soul, to lessen the torment even for a moment. She waited for a moment of respite.

She got nothing.

She kept staring at the calendar, the funny one he'd made her buy, saying that it showed two months at once, so it was twice as effective. She had laughed. Now she stared, wondering if she looked at it long enough the black circle over that horrible day six weeks ago would disappear. She didn't know why she had marked it, but marked it was nonetheless.

Only…she looked closer at the calendar, flicking back to the month before. Three weeks above that circle was a red dot in the corner of a date, a little reminder to stock up on certain products, a little note for later reflection. Zoe was a military woman, right down to her physical side – there should have been a matching red dot exactly four weeks later, a week after Miranda.

There was nothing.

There had been no little red dot for nine weeks now, no little indicator. Her ammunition levels were carefully calculated, she had made notes about the condition of her weapons, there was nothing to indicate she would have forgotten to note something like that. There was only one reason she wouldn't have marked that little red dot.

Because on the day the little red dot was due, there was nothing.

One hand grazed over her stomach as she turned to stare at the dinosaurs on his bedside table. She had thought the nausea was simply grief affecting her eating habits, had believed the dizziness to be through lack of food. It wasn't because of either of those things.

On the day that little dot should have been placed on the calendar, nothing came.

Somehow her dehydrated body found more liquid. The tears began to stream down her cheeks, hot and slick, sliding under her chin and dripping onto her collar bone. She had never felt anything more painfully exquisite in her life. One hand joined the other against her abdomen as she began to weep in earnest, and for the first time in six weeks they weren't tears of grief.

Because of all the nothings Wash could have left her, none were as wonderful as this.

**A/N: **Because even I'm not that bloody awful...


End file.
